


The Predator's Obsession

by mrs_squirrel_chester



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Reader-Insert, Starvation, Violence, Violence against women, plus size reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-07 01:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11613447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_squirrel_chester/pseuds/mrs_squirrel_chester
Summary: In this current day Avengers AU, you work as a profiler with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Your boyfriend, Steve Rogers, leads a close-knit group of supervisory special agents as they track a killer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> POV changes. Any terminology mistakes are mine, and mine alone. I hope you enjoy.

**_ABOUT A WEEK AGO_ **

You figured you’d been held hostage six days, although you weren’t entirely sure. Who knew, it could be more. Probably not, though. It was hard to tell the passage of time when you were at the bottom of a pit. Besides being cold and dirty, you were past the point of being hungry, the point where it no longer growled, complaining that you weren’t eating. Now it just hurt, sending stabs of pain through your weak and weary body. The water that had been sent down this morning was almost gone; less than a cup remained, but you weren’t going to drink it. Not yet. Not when you knew you wouldn’t be getting more until the next morning.

Sitting in the cool dirt, you pressed your back to the rough wall, drew your legs up, and rested your shaking arms atop your knees. Your head fell back and your eyelids fluttered closed. Damn, you were tired, but you couldn’t fall asleep. Not because you were incapable of doing so, but because you refused to. Not when you didn’t want to miss a thing. Even the most insignificant thing could save your life. That’s what Steve had always told you. Well, him and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Being a profiler for the FBI and long-time girlfriend of Steve Rogers; highest ranking special agent in Brooklyn, you had learned a lot. But all of those lessons learned failed you the moment a rag soaked with chloroform was shoved over your face. Your mouth went sour at the memory, and it took everything you had to keep from drinking the water sitting so very close to you.

Every hour that passed, your body grew weaker, but you knew that you could last a bit longer. Sure, you hadn’t eaten in over a week, but you weren’t built like Natasha or Wanda. You had hips and a great ass, tits that made other men stare while their girlfriends rolled their eyes. There were curves in places some women dreamed about having, but it didn’t stop there. Your stomach was soft and bore light purple and pink stretch marks, there was cellulite on your hips and thighs, and you had to specially order your bras. You had a double chin, your upper arms jiggled, and your thighs spread out, touching when you sat down. Most people called you fat, a whale, hideous, but you knew better than to play into their mind games. You weren’t stupid, you knew you were overweight, curvy, voluptuous, but Steve called you beautiful.

The garage door opened, sending a low-pitched rumble through the house and deep into the basement. The wall at your back trembled, pushing clumps of dirt into your hair and down your now slightly baggy and sweat-stained shirt. You shouldn’t have been afraid, but your heart kick-started painfully, and your hands were shaking as your torn and ragged nails dug into the dirt next to your hips.

His steps were heavy as he strode through the house with murderous purpose, the heels of his shoes scraping along the floor as he went. The closer he got to the door that was locked five times at the top of the stairs, the louder the floor creaked. It was deliberate, the way he would throw the locks slowly, as if he wanted to draw it out, the suspense of it all, to send fear surging through your veins, pumping your blood harder, your heart all but pounding out of your chest. He got off on it, you were damn sure of that. You weren’t the most sought after profiler on the eastern seaboard for nothing; you knew your shit.

Too bad that hadn’t saved you.

* * *

**_2 YEARS AGO_ **

Steve was waiting inside Y/N’s office, pacing nervously, one hand on his hip, the other pushing through his short hair. He knew she was understandably nervous about the interview, but goddamn it, even  _his_  stomach was rolling like the ocean.

 _She should have been back by now_ , he thought to himself, glaring at the watch on his wrist. Finding out if she got the promotion shouldn’t be taking so fucking long.

Wanda poked her head in and chuckled. “You’re going to ruin the carpet,” she teased in her thick Sokovian accent.

“Jesus, Wanda,” Steve rasped, hitting his hip on a chair as he spun around.

Her chuckle broke into a laugh. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Wanda assured him.

Steve tittered and smiled at Y/N’s secretary and friend. “Do you know what’s taking so long?”

“I don’t, sorry,” she confessed, shrugging as she entered the office. “But I’m sure it won’t be too much longer.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked, brows knitting together.

“No matter the outcome of the meeting with Fury,” Wanda started, raising an eyebrow at Steve.

Steve knew where this was going. “Shawarma,” he murmured, unable to keep from smiling. “The Palace gets pretty busy on a Friday.”

“It does,” Wanda said knowingly. “I called on Monday.”

There was a soft knock on the glass door as Clint walked in. “Anything yet?” he signed, having turned off his hearing implants in order to decompress.

Both Wanda and Steve shook their heads. “Not yet, man,” Steve answered.

Clint rolled his eyes playfully. “Finding out if she got the promotion-”

“Shouldn’t take so long,” Steve signed, finishing Clint’s sentence. “I know, right?”

“You know how Fury is,” Wanda pointed out. Both men looked at her and shook their heads. “Can’t get a word in edgewise.”

Steve and Clint exchanged a look before laughing. “You must have Director Fury confused with someone else, Wanda,” Clint insisted.

“No, I am not confused about anything,” she stated simply.

“Nick Fury, our director, is a chatterbox?” Steve posed, disbelief thick on his tongue.

Wanda was nodding. “I often have to disrupt their meetings because they’ve run over.”

“Huh, who’d’a thought,” Steve muttered under his breath.

Clint pulled a buzzing phone from his jacket. “I gotta take this. Meet you at the Palace?” Wanda and Steve nodded, watching Clint accept the facetime call from his wife as he strode back to his office across the hall.

“So,” Steve started, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “About interrupting their meeting…”

Wanda shook her head and squared her shoulders. “No, Steve. Not this time.”

“Please,” he almost begged. “It’s killing me!”

Dark eyes roamed over the special agent. “You are most certainly not being killed.”

That got him laughing. “It’s just an expression, Wanda.”

While Wanda and her twin brother, Pietro, had been in the United States for almost a decade, there were still some things that went over their heads. Simple expressions that everyone else used on a daily basis, brought about looks of confusion and needing explanations for the twins. It was adorable, really.

“You and your expressions.” Wanda jabbed Steve playfully in the side as she walked past.

Steve waited until she was seated before giving it another try. “Fury’s extension is 627.”

“You want to find out what is going on so badly, you call.” Wanda pointed to the phone on Y/N’s desk before turning to her computer to finish her work for the day. Truth was, Wanda wanted to know if her friend had received the promotion just as badly as Steve did, but she knew better than to disrupt a meeting of this nature.

Before Steve could say anything else, his other best friend rounded the corner. “Hey, man,” Brock greeted Steve, clapping him on the shoulder. “We celebratin’ or what?”

Steve rolled his eyes and stood to the side so Brock could take a seat in Y/N’s office. “Nothin’ yet, man.”

“It’s a simple yes or no. It’s not like there’s a lot to go over,” Brock huffed, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his crisp white shirt.

“Get this,” Steve whispered harshly. “Fury is a talker.”

Brock’s eyes went wide as he looked up at his friend. “The fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?”

Steve chuckled as he sat on the edge of his girlfriend’s desk. “Apparently, he and Y/N talk.”

“Wait, they have conversations? Like, honest-to-God conversations about things besides work?”

“I guess so, man,” Steve answered. “Wanda says she’s had to interrupt them quite often.”

Brock let out a breathy laugh. “You sure all they’re doing is talkin?”

“Shut up.” Steve kicked his friend and partner in the foot playfully.

“I don’t know, Steve,” he continued. “Fury is quite the ladies man.”

Steve laughed loudly. “I’m sure Mrs. Fury would have something to say about that.”

Brock joined his friend in laughter, joking further than their director would have liked. That’s when Y/N entered her office, hands shaking at her sides and a smile pulling tightly at her lips. Wanda jogged in while Brock pushed out of the chair and Steve all but leapt off the edge of the desk.

“Everything ok, baby?” Steve asked gently.

All she did was shrug her shoulders in response.

* * *

Your back was ramrod straight, so much so that the muscles between your shoulder blades started to burn, spreading up into the back of your neck. While you had been in that office, in that same chair on many occasions, this meeting was different. This meeting would put you down one of two paths, taking you down very different terrains within the Bureau.

Nick dropped into his chair and chuckled at your stoic expression. “Relax, agent Y/L/N,” he cooed.

Your smile was more forced than his. “Sorry, sir,” you rasped. “Just a bit nervous.”

“I can see that,” he admitted, eyes flicking down to the hands you were wringing together in your lap.

“Sorry,” you repeated your apology, instantly screwing your eyes shut. You sounded like a broken record.

“Let’s get things started, shall we?” Fury asked, opening the thick file in front of him.

You quickly nodded in agreement. “Yes, please.”

He dropped his one-eyed gaze and started to flip through the papers. “Quite the list of accolades and accomplishments for someone so young,” Fury stated simply, more to himself than anything.

“I graduated Harvard, top of my class-” you started.

“You were only 19,” the director noted.

Nodding at Fury, you swallowed hard. “Regular school was too easy for me. I needed to be challenged. In order for that to happen, I pursued a PhD in criminal psychology with a forensic emphasis, along with a bachelor’s and master’s degree after graduating high school at 16.”

Another paper was turned over. “Your GPA was 9.5; the highest on record.”

“I have quite a good memory, sir.” Shit, you hoped you didn’t sound arrogant.

Fury smiled as he continued to stare at your file. “I’d say so,” he agreed. “Says here you have [ ** _Eidetic and Mnemonist_**](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FExceptional_memory&t=NWZkYWY0NTM2MzQ5N2QzZGRhZjhkNWM2MzUyYjEyNDVmNjUxYTBmYSwzQzF2eDlCaw%3D%3D&b=t%3ACfmOVX62N1SvYXISFQBhgQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmrs-squirrel-chester.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163426974587%2Fthe-predators-obsession&m=1) memory. Quite the combination.”

Your throat went thick. “Is… is that a bad thing?”

“Far from it, Y/N,” Fury assured you. “The work that you’ve put forth has not gone unnoticed by the board. The amount of cases the BAU has closed over the past 2 years has gone up by almost 35%. It might not sound like a lot, but it really is.”

This was the first time you had heard a definitive number. Everything before then had been rumor and speculation. Hearing it now made pride swell in your chest. You did that. Well, not just you, but you helped. You helped prepare case files for presentation to the BAU and even went along on most of the cases. Your input had become valued and it wasn’t long before you were an unofficial member of the close-knit team.

After looking over your file for a quiet moment, Fury pulled out a piece of paper and grabbed a heavy pen from the set next to his nameplate. “How does Supervisory Special Agent Y/L/N sound to you?”

* * *

“Everything ok, baby?” Steve asked gently.

You met his concerned gaze and shrugged. There was a moment of thick silence before you rasped, “I got it.”

Steve smiled wide and pressed his lips to yours. “A’course you did! I’m so proud of you,” he praised, pulling you into his arms and lifting you off the floor.

Brock’s hand was on your shoulder once your feet were back on the ground. “That’s amazing, Y/N. Now, let’s go get some shawarma!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON THE PREDATOR'S OBSESSION:
> 
> After looking over your file for a quiet moment, Fury pulled out a piece of paper and grabbed a heavy pen from the set next to his nameplate. “How does Supervisory Special Agent Y/L/N sound to you?

_**6 MONTHS AGO** _

You had just taken a seat and kicked off your heels when there was a knock on your door.

Wanda poked her head in. “I know you just got back, but Fury is waiting for you in the large conference room.”

“Seriously?” you gruffed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Wanda apologized gently.

“Do you know what he wants?”

She apologized again with a shake of her head. “All I know is that he said he wanted to see the team straight away.”

“I’m comin’,” you sighed, shoving your aching feet back into the heels.

The case you just helped close was a brutal one; someone had been trapping special-needs families inside their homes and setting them on fire; the youngest child had been less than a year old. Your stomach hadn’t stopped churning since finding out that bit of information. It was a non-stop-balls-to-the-wall-hit-the-ground-running kind of case. To say you were running on empty was putting it lightly.

Steve had just entered the office when you rounded the corner. Despite being just as tired as you, his face lit up and he shot you a wink. You tried, but failed, to keep from blushing under his gaze. It didn’t matter how long the two of you had dated, the man still made your stomach flop and your heart skip a beat. Giving him a secret wink of your own, you pulled the door closed behind you.

Fury was pacing, which was nothing new, but the way he was doing it was disconcerting. His shoulders were tight and he was staring at the floor, watching his feet as they pounded into the dark carpet. He was running a hand over his bald head, pushing and pulling the black strand of his eye patch back and forth, twisting it, only to have it snap back a moment later.

“Something’s wrong,” you whispered to Clint.

Clint scoffed at the tail-end of a yawn. “I’ll fuckin’ say so. I promised my little girl I’d be at her ballet recital.”

“No,” you disagreed quietly. “With Fury. It’s almost like whatever’s going on is close to home for him.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asked curiously.

You jutted out your chin in Fury’s direction. “He’s muttering to himself. I… I can’t tell what he’s saying, though. His shoulders are too tight, he’s walking too hard; everything about him is screaming that something big is happening. Not just in Brooklyn, but with him.”

Everyone’s eyes were on the director, and they probably would have stayed there if Natasha hadn’t cleared her throat. “You asked to see us, sir.”

Dark eyes snapped into focus as Fury raised his head. “I… ah…  yes. Yes, I… I did,” he sputtered. He ran a hand down the front of his very crinkled black shirt. “A mass grave was unearthed over the weekend,” he started, having to stop to clear his throat loudly. “Some hikers that were far from the beaten path stumbled across it. There were six bodies, all women; same age group, build, and height.”

You stepped forward. “Do we have names yet?”

“Just one,” Fury rasped. “She was the… the uh… the newest victim. Her name is… was-”

Tony sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “Out with it, already.”

Fury leveled SSA Stark with a dark glare. “Her name was Stella.”

“Oh, my…” you breathed, finally understanding why your boss was behaving the way he was. Stella wasn’t just someone from the town you lived in and loved, Stella was-

“My daughter’s been killed,” Nick huffed with shaking hands balled into fists at his side. 

* * *

_**6 DAYS AGO** _

Looking back, you should have known who the perpetrator was. Obviously, you knew _now_ , having seen his face as he watched you from above, heard his voice as he talked down to you, calling you all the negative names you had called yourself over the years. But when the kidnappings and killings first started, everything was just short of chaos. There was an understandable urgency around the case since it involved the youngest daughter of Nick Fury, but there were signs that everyone missed; yourself included. And now you were paying the price for your oversight.

You knew it was impossible to draw yourself out of his line of sight, but that didn’t stop your body from trying. Each descending step he took drove a dark chill down your spine before settling deep in your gut. Goosebumps dotted your panic-dampened skin and, despite your attempt not to turn away, your eyes screwed shut and your cheek was plastered against the dirt wall.

The slide of his boots in the ground above sent down a shower of dirt that landed at your bare feet. “You’d think that after being here for as long as you have, you wouldn’t be so scared,” he teased, his voice dark and full of danger.

“I… I’m not scared,” you lied through clenched teeth.

“Bull-fucking-shit, sweetheart.” He barked out a laugh as he started to walk around the opening.

You growled low in your throat and willed your eyes to open. “I’m not!” Another laugh erupted from him as he kicked more dirt down. The spray didn’t miss you this time. You spat and coughed, blinking rapidly at the intrusion of musty-smelling dirt.

“You should see your face right now, cow,” the man circling you growled.

You finished wiping the dirt from your face before you stood. “A cow, huh? That all you got today?” you taunted. Stupidly stubborn, that’s what Steve always said about you. Never one to ever back down, you chuckled deeply, hoping to God he could hear the determination you were barely clinging to.

Dropping to his knees, you could see the anger flashing in his eyes; even from fifteen feet away. “You’d do best to shut up,” he snarled, thrusting his finger out.

“Or what?” you shrieked. “You going to kick more dirt in my face? Go for it, asshole.” You lobbed a handful of packed dirt at him, narrowly missing his chin. You weren’t 100% sure how he would react, but laughing coldly and pushing off the ground wasn’t it.

He ran a hand through his slicked back hair and smiled wickedly. “Oh, honey. The things I have in store for you has made even the most seasoned detective lose his lunch.” He disappeared a moment later, that sick laugh of his echoing in your ears.

You knew exactly what he meant. After all, you had seen the bodies, the damage and pain he had inflicted upon all those women. You watched as their friends and families grieved, weeping uncontrollably at the horror before them, the trauma the victims had endured. For the first time since being taken, you were properly scared. For the first time since the discovery of the mass grave, you wondered what it felt like to have your skin sliced from your body.

* * *

_**6 MONTHS AGO** _

While Steve and Brock sat with the director’s wife and asked questions about her daughter’s life, you strolled through the room and took in everything about it. That was your job; to sit back, survey, compile your findings, and deliver a workable profile that would bring justice and closure to the friends and families of those that had died.

Before now, you had never met Stella. Oh, Nick had told you plenty of stories, but you hadn’t met her. So, when you came across a picture of her high school graduation, you had to bite back the gasp that threatened to fall out. As if you couldn’t believe what you were seeing, you picked up the heavy silver frame and examined the picture closer.

“Was Stella adopted?” you asked, interrupting your boyfriend’s string of questions.

“I… I’m sorry, what?” Mrs. Fury choked on the emotion in her throat.

You held the picture out and repeated your question. “It is not my intent to sound insensitive, but every bit of information will help with the profile.” Steve’s azure eyes were wide, a mix of irritation and confusion whirling through them as he, too, looked at the photograph. You guessed that Steve had never met nor seen Stella before then.

Mrs. Fury smiled as she took the frame from you. She ran a finger over the image of her daughter as she answered your question, “Nick and I tried for years to have a family of our own, but mother nature was not on our side.”

“So you adopted,” Brock stated, pen scraping over the paper as he made a note.

“She was two months premature,” she explained sadly. “So small and fragile, had all these medical issues. Her birth mother couldn’t handle it, so she up and left. Can you believe it? Who could leave a sick, defenseless child like that?”

You sat next to the grieving mother and draped your hand over her shaking one. “Is there anyone you can think of that might have held a grudge against Stella?”

Mrs. Fury’s wet and red-rimmed eyes went wide. “Stella is… was the most selfless and generous woman.”

“I don’t doubt that one bit. However, you and your husband are a very successful African-American couple, and you adopted a child that was not.” You really hoped she didn’t take offense to what you were not-so-subtly suggesting.

Steve moved to the edge of his seat. “Y/N, you think this is something as simple as the color of someone’s skin?”

Shrugging, you gave Mrs. Fury’s hand a squeeze. “I don’t know. What I do know is that we need to cover everything. This is something that we need to look into.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Fury acknowledged. “The answer is no. I mean… I don’t think there was anyone like that in her life.”

“No stalkers or ex-boyfriends that couldn’t take the hint?” Steve pushed carefully.

She shook her head and brushed away the tears that fell. “Nothing that I knew of.”

Brock stood quickly. “Do you mind if we take a look around?”

“Of course not, Agent Rumlow.”

* * *

Despite the fact that paper was covering almost every inch of the coffee table, there was a method to your madness. At least, that’s what Steve always said. Currently, he was standing behind you as you stared at the board you’d started putting together in the living room. There were details about each victim written down, before and after pictures, an in process timeline, different colored string for each victim that also meant different things. At least they did to you.

You sipped on the cold beer and tilted your head to the side, trying to sort through the jumble of information inside your head. That always happened at the beginning of a case. There was so much information to dive through, to sort, to figure out, that all you could do was zone out until something made sense. Trouble was, nothing was making sense.

Groaning angrily, you spun on your heel and stormed away, flopping down onto the couch next to the brown and white mutt Steve adopted before the two of you had gotten together. Dodger sighed heavily and shifted until he could rest his head on your leg. Scratching behind his ears, you dropped your head back and closed your eyes.

“We’ll figure this out,” Steve promised as he sat on the other end of the small couch.

“Will we?” you scoffed. “There’s so much about this that doesn’t make sense.”

Steve grabbed your hand and squeezed it until your eyes opened. “It starts out that way; always has, always will. But sooner or later we’ll find that one missing piece.”

You smiled wistfully before saying, “How long will it take? Six women are already dead, one of them being Nick’s own daughter. This guy either has someone right now that he’s starving and torturing, or he’s going to very soon.”

After ushering Dodger off the couch, Steve grabbed your beer and placed it on the table next to his. He scooted over and kissed you sweetly. “Baby, you can’t go there. You just can’t.”

“I know,” you murmured, your eyes still closed from the kiss. “I just… I’ve never felt stuck like this.”

Steve’s hand was on the back of your neck and his thumb was brushing over your cheek. He waited until you opened your eyes to say, “And you’ll get unstuck, I promise. But for now, you need to decompress, get your mind off this case.” His voice was thick and deep, like molasses and sandpaper.

With a brow raised, you smirked. “Oh, yeah? Just what did you have in mind, Agent Rogers?” You’d have to be blind to miss the dark flash in his eyes.

“Well, Agent Y/L/N,” he began, standing tall so he could pull you from the couch. “First, there’s going to be a massage.” Steve’s fingers were at your waist, tugging the silken shirt free from the black skirt that hugged your generous hips.

You hummed in agreement, your hands beginning to itch bad enough that you reached out and unbuttoned his white shirt. “I do enjoy your massages,” you praised as heat started to pool between your legs. “Then what did you have in mind?”

Steve’s hands were under your shirt, skimming over your goosebump-dotted skin in a way that made you arch your back. When you grabbed the lapels of his shirt, he chuckled low in his throat and pulled you into him.

“I think I’ll leave that up to you,” he murmured before kissing you. The scruff of his beard bit into your chin and your palm as you drug your nails through his short hair. Steve moaned in the back of his throat when you slanted your mouth against his and pushed your tongue past his plush lips.

The two of you stood there, kissing and moaning, urging the other out of various pieces of clothing until Dodger gave a loud bark. It wasn’t the normal bark either of you were used to hearing. This was deeper, rumbling his chest and throat. Even his ears were pushed back and his tail was ramrod straight.

Wearing only his boxers, Steve went to the glass door and dropped his hand to Dodger’s head. “What’s out there, bud?” The dog’s answer was another rumbling bark.

You turned on the patio light to give the three of you a better view of the large yard, but nothing out of the ordinary stood out. “Probably just a raccoon or something,” you told Dodger, scratching behind his ears.

“Come on,” Steve urged as he turned off the light and grabbed your hand. “Let’s go to bed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON THE PREDATOR’S OBSESSION:
> 
> “We’ll figure this out,” Steve promised as he sat on the other end of the small couch.
> 
> “Will we?” you scoffed. “There’s so much about this that doesn’t make sense.”
> 
> Steve grabbed your hand and squeezed it until your eyes opened. “It starts out that way; always has, always will. But sooner or later we’ll find that one missing piece.”

_**2 YEARS AGO** _

He sat in the back corner of the bar, back pressed against the wall, hand wrapped around a glass of tap beer, his dark eyes settled enviously upon Steve Rogers and his girlfriend. Currently, Steve was sitting next to Y/N, his hand squeezing her thigh and disappearing under the hem of her skirt. She was definitely drunk, giggling and blushing, whispering something into his ear that made Steve chew on his bottom lip.

The very public display of affection made him tingle in jealousy. Each of the hairs on his chest and arms were standing, as if there were a layer of static under his shirt, his skin desperate for the kind of endearment he was seeing. But it wasn’t the woman pressed against Steve he wanted to hold; it was Steve himself.

People called him sick and twisted to want love and affection from a man, but they didn’t understand what was going on inside of him. Hell, he didn’t fully understand it either. He hadn’t until he met Steve. It only took a handshake and a smile for the missing puzzle piece to snap into place. From that moment on, he knew he’d do anything to be with Steve. And it was in that moment that  he knew that he would go as far as killing someone. 

* * *

_**6 DAYS AGO** _

Steve was pacing back and forth in her office. Not like anytime before when it had been a case of nerves or working out some aspect of a case. This time it was because he was feeling so many emotions that it felt like he was going to explode. If it were up to him, he would be at the gym  taking it out on the boxing equipment, but Fury wouldn’t let him leave. Steve actually hadn’t been allowed to leave the building since Y/N disappeared.

“Six days,” Steve snarled, roughly removing his tie.

James everyone-calls-me-Bucky Barnes, was sitting behind Y/N’s desk, going through her computer, looking for anything that might help. “We’re all doin’ our best, Steve.”

“I know that,” Steve ground out. “I do. I just… it’s been six fucking days!”

Wanda stepped in a moment later. “Did something happen?” she rasped, voice broken from lack of sleep and worry for the life of her friend.

Bucky shook his head at Wanda. “It’s ok, doll. Steve is just-”

“Fucking losing my mind,” Steve interrupted his friend with a shout.

Wanda jumped back at the outburst, tears immediately prickling her bloodshot eyes. An apology rushed out of her before she spun on her heel with every intent of running out. Before she could even cross the threshold, Bucky’s hand was on her elbow and he was turning her around.

“Don’t run off, doll,” Bucky pleaded softly before kissing the top of her head and rubbing circles on her back.

“I just… I didn’t mean-” Wanda choked on a sob and buried her face in Bucky’s chest, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

Steve watched her fall apart and winced under the dark gaze of Bucky. “Shit, Wanda,” Steve murmured, raking a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, doll. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

She was still crying, but it was softer than a moment ago. “I thought something…,” her voice trailed off because she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She didn’t know what she would do if something happened to Y/N. Wanda thought of her as family, and would be completely gutted if Y/N couldn’t be saved.

Bucky squeezed her shoulders and took a step back. “Nothing is going to happen to her, sweetheart,” he pledged. “We are going to find Y/N and bring her home.”

“Safe and sound?” Wanda asked, dark eyes wet and wide.

“Ain’t no other way about it,” Steve snarled.

* * *

_**5 MONTHS AGO** _

The man in the backyard blended into the shadows a little too easily. But that was the point, wasn’t it? The last thing he wanted to do was stand out, give away his location, let them know that they weren’t alone. If they found out he was right there, within shooting distance, it would all be over. So he stayed perfectly still while watching them through the sliding patio doors.

His breathing was calm, steady and even until the couple started kissing. Before he could think twice, his hands were balling into fists, and he punched one of the trees that were giving him shelter. For a moment, he thought they had heard because they stopped. The air that was trapped in his lungs burst out once their hands were busy with ridding the other of clothes. Steve’s hand was just about to unclasp her bra when he snarled loud enough for their dog to take notice of something outside being a possible threat.

He couldn’t help but smirk as they looked outside, going so far as to turn on the bright light. Like that would make him jump out from his spot and run away. The dog barked once more, then the outside light was turned off; as were the rest of the lights inside.

Only a handful of minutes ticked by before he gave up and left. Neither Steve nor Y/N would be making another appearance tonight. But now that he had seen how the dog reacted, he began to mentally alter his original plan for Y/N. Whatever details that were to be changed, the outcome would stay the same.

Y/N would be dead and, finally, Steve would be his. But first, there was another woman he needed to take a look at.

* * *

Muscles twitched as you began to wake up, the remnants of a dream clinging desperately to the edges of your unconsciousness, like wispy tendrils that hung from a weeping willow. They blew back and forth in the breeze, some catching, others barely missing, so you were left with fragments. It was almost as if there were a Polaroid camera going off, flashing brightly before spitting out an image that took entirely too long to develop. They were in no particular order, either. Just randomly snapped, developed, and received. Your brain was struggling to keep up and put them in the correct order. And just when something started to make sense, Dodger started barking.

With your heart hammering, you sat up, and found the dog lying next to you, his paws and tail twitching as he dreamed. After you rubbed your eyes and got your heart to slow down, you found that Steve wasn’t there. Considering how the sun was now brightening up the room, you weren’t all that surprised; the man liked to jog early in the morning. After scratching Dodger’s belly, you took a quick shower, ate a bagel, and then sipped your perfectly sweetened coffee while you stood in front of the mess of information once again.

There was too much information, there always was. But every other time before, you had gotten through it. You had to, because it was your job. Not just that, though. You loved it; analyzing everything about every little detail in a way that drove most people crazy. It drove the team crazy, the way your scientifically correct verbal vomit  helped put the bad guy - or guys - behind bars. So you’d get through the onslaught of information. You just had to take it slow. Which you fucking hated.

* * *

_**5 DAYS AGO** _

Fury sat behind his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose and spinning in slow, lazy circles, stopping only when Steve rapped his knuckles on the slightly ajar door.

“Yeah,” Fury mumbled. “What’d’ya want?”

Steve closed the door behind him, then approached the dark-hued desk of the director. “We need to find Y/N, Fury, and fast,” he ordered, hands balled into fists at his side.

“Think I don’t know that, Rogers,? Fury spat as he sat up. “One of my agents is out there, having the unspeakable done to her, and you think I’m not doing everything in my fucking power to get her back?”

“I… I didn’t say-” Steve started, only to be cut off by Fury standing abruptly.

“No, you didn’t fucking say anything. But it’s what you meant,” he snarled.

Steve swallowed thickly at the emotion that threatened to break him. “I just… six days, sir,” he rasped, dragging a hand over his face. “If this… if…” he couldn’t bring himself to say _his_ name, not after what he had done. “This asshole keeps going the way he has been, we’ll find her… her b- body in another six.” Steve wasn’t normally the kind of person to show emotion, he preferred to bottle it up, grinding his jaw and shoving everything down a little further, just enough to keep from letting everyone see what was going on. But when it came to Y/N, there was no keeping his feelings a secret.

Fury walked around his desk and across the room to the table that had several decanters full of finely-aged whiskey, gin, and scotch. He poured two healthy helpings of the latter, handing one to Steve while he perched on the edge of his desk.

The pair drank in comfortable silence for several minutes before Fury said, “I know what you’re feeling.”

“No, you don’t,” Steve scoffed. “You didn’t even know Stella was missing.”

The look that flashed in Fury’s eye made Steve cringe, rightfully so. “Shit, sir… I… I didn’t mean… I… fuck,” he stammered.

“It’s alright, son,” Nick assured his top agent. “You’re right, we didn’t know Stella was missing. We didn’t know anything was wrong until it was too late, so no, I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling right now; that deep-in-the-bottom of your gut ache that only grows wider and deeper with every passing second. Or… or the double catch of your heart in your chest when you see someone that looks like her in passing, or when you hear someone laugh and you swear it’s them. But… but you know deep down it’s not, it can’t be, right? Because they’re go- gone,” he choked on the last word, blinking crazily with his one good eye.

Steve didn’t know what to say. Not because Fury was off about what they were both feeling, but because Steve had never seen the director exhibit an emotion besides low-key anger and control. Finishing his drink quickly, Steve stood and set the glass next to Fury.

“Thanks for the drink, sir,” he murmured, clapped his boss on the shoulder, and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Fury nodded and raised his glass to the now empty room. “Salud,” he heartened softly.

* * *

_**4 MONTHS AGO** _

“He keeps them for twelve days,” you started, drumming your fingers against your desk. “Starves them, but gives them enough water to keep them alive. They were kept someplace dark and cool; underground maybe.”

“Maybe isn’t a word you say a lot.” Steve said half-jokingly, quirking a brow as your eyes lifted from the many open files.

“Ha ha, you’re funny, Rogers,” you teased, sending him a wink before turning your gaze down. “There was a severe lack of vitamin d, which comes from-”

“The sun,” Steve blurted out, like the star student answering one of the hardest questions on the quiz, even though he wasn’t asked.

You chuckled and nodded. “Their bones were in the early stages of showing malnutrition, same with the roots of their hair. Had they been kept alive much longer, they would have died of starvation.”

“And there’s no other signs of…  trauma?” Tony asked, chewing on a toothpick and eyeing your bookcase. Everyone in the room knew what Tony was subtly hinting at, and it made more than one of them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“Thankfully, no,” you breathed. “No sexual trauma occurred and, besides starvation, there was no other physical damage done to them by the hands of the perp.”

Wanda, who had snuck in moments ago, asked, “What do you mean, by the hands of the perp? Was there other…” her voice trailed off as if saying the words would make her sick.

Standing, you turned and stuck some pictures to the board that took up the majority of the wall. “Their nails were badly torn, some even completely gone. Most likely because they tried to claw their way out.”

“Out from where?” Bucky asked, raking a hand through his longer-than-regulation-allowed hair.

“Ain’t that the $65,000 question, Barnes?” Rumlow snarked, popping his feet onto your desk. Steve was about to reprimand his friend when you turned around and glared at Brock. He removed his feet a moment later, arching his brows and, thinking that only Steve could see him, rolled his eyes.

“I think the question you’re actually searching for is what kind of person would do something like this,” you snapped, slapping a high definition, close-up picture onto the board. It wasn’t just any picture, it was Stella Fury. Wanda gasped loudly and bolted from the room. Bucky was quick on her heels, calling out for her to stop.

“Shit,” you gasped. Wanda was one of the most sensitive people you knew. Hurting her was the last thing you had wanted to do. With your head down, you pinched the bridge of your nose and shook your head. You went to round the desk, but Steve’s hand was on yours.

“Bucky’s got her, Y/N,” he breathed, brushing his thumb over the backside of your wrist.

You pulled in a shuddering breath and nodded. “Alright, let’s dive back in.”

* * *

_**5 DAYS AGO** _

There had to be something you could use to get out of there. Of course, that wasn’t the first time you’d thought about escaping, but it didn’t matter how many times you thought about it or put together some half-assed attempt, because reality would rear its ugly head and bite you in the ass.

Case in point.

After countless hours of digging holes into the wall, holes that you would use to climb your way to the top, you were almost there, but then your bare foot slipped and you fell flat on your tailbone. You tried to bite back the cry of pain, but it slipped out before the back of your head bounced off the hard ground. Your ears were ringing and there were black dots eating at your vision as pain shot through you. Even through the ringing, you could hear one thing; his footsteps. They were loud, thunderous, driving a nail into your temple each time his booted heels hit the floor. You were pushing yourself up when dirt rained down from above.

“The fuck did you do?” he snarled without any genuine concern.

“Nothing,” you muttered, gingerly wiping the dirt from your ass.

He scoffed loudly and kicked some dirt onto you. “Quit fuckin’ lying to me! You tried gettin’ out, didn’t you?”

“Now why would I want to do something like that?” you snarked louder than you intended. You blamed it on the possible concussion. Your answer was a shower of ice cold water.

It was frigid and relentless, driving you to your hands and knees, and the air from your lungs. You were hunched over, trying desperately to breathe properly, trying to think of hot fires and coffee fresh out of the pot, but nothing worked. You fell to your side, shivering and shaking to the point that the thought of passing out into the great chasm of unconsciousness seemed like a better option than hypothermia. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He met your determined gaze and started cackling. The water slowed drastically until it finally stopped. His deadly dark eyes held yours as you struggled to stand, teeth chattering loudly and muscles screaming in protest.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be so goddamn fun to break,” he barked.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON THE PREDATOR’S OBSESSION:
> 
> “I think the question you’re actually searching for is what kind of person would do something like this,” you snapped, slapping a high definition, close-up picture onto the board. It wasn’t just any picture, it was Stella Fury. Wanda gasped loudly and bolted from the room. Bucky was quick on her heels, calling out for her to stop.
> 
> “Shit,” you gasped. Wanda was one of the most sensitive people you knew. Hurting her was the last thing you had wanted to do. With your head down, you pinched the bridge of your nose and shook your head. You went to round the desk, but Steve’s hand was on yours.
> 
> “Bucky’s got her, Y/N,” he breathed, brushing his thumb over the backside of your wrist.
> 
> You pulled in a shuddering breath and nodded. “Alright, let’s dive back in.”

**_4 MONTHS AGO_ **

“Agent Rumlow,” Mrs. Fury greeted her husband’s colleague as she opened the front door. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Brock shook the rain from his jacket before stepping inside. “I just had a couple of follow-up questions. I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”

She gave a wave of her hand. “What else can I do to help?”

“Last time we spoke, you said that you hadn’t seen Stella for several months,” he spoke carefully. “Was that normal?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Fury answered. “Stella was a bit of a traveller, always wanted to visit new and exciting places.”

Brock nodded as he scribbled in his notepad. “And you didn’t know anything was wrong until…”

Tears pricked the back of her eyes and she sniffled. “No,” she quietly agreed. “Not until she… her body was identified.”

“Just one more thing, Mrs. Fury,” Brock promised. “Is there any chance I could get another look at her room? I just want to make sure nothing was overlooked.”

“Of course, agent. Take all the time you feel you need.”

* * *

Steve’s focus was on the plethora of information Y/N had emailed him. He was propped on one elbow, chin resting in a hand while the other scrolled and clicked, opening and closing documents, trying to help piece together the large and fragmented puzzle the killer had left. Rumlow almost felt bad for knocking on the door.

“Hey, man,” Brock said, taking a seat opposite his partner.

Steve didn’t so much as blink. “Hey. Find anything more at the Fury’s?”

“Nah,” he answered quickly. “No surprises hiding under her pillow or mattress.”

“And we’re sure she didn’t have any other properties?” Steve asked softly, still in a slight daze.

“Negatory, brother. Dude, blink or something,” Broke joked, smiling wide.

With a shake of his head, Steve leaned back and stretched loudly, scratching at his chest the way he only did when he was completely overloaded and exhausted. “No time. We gotta figure out who this guy is, and fast,” Steve huffed. “Ain’t no way Imma let some asshole run around my town, killin’ and skinnin’ people.”

Brock shuddered, rolling his neck to ease the knot there. “Who does something like that?”

“Fuckin’ freaks, that’s who,” Steve ground out.

“Y/N have anything that’ll help?”

Steve smirked at the mere mention of her. “Nah, not yet. Not that she’s not bustin’ her ass as much as we are.”

“You’re really smitten with her, ain’t ya?” Brock asked cooly.

Steve would have to have had Clint’s hearing to miss the change in Brock’s demeanor. He turned and looked at his friend. “Look, I know I haven’t been as… available as I used to be to you and Buck.”

Brock waved his hand. “I get it, man. I do. You two got yourselves two great dames-”

“Dames, huh?” Steve arched his brow and chuckled. “This the 40’s all’a sudden?”

Unable to keep from laughing, Brock’s head fell back. “Couldn’t be stopped, it just slipped out.”

“Speaking of dames…” Steve’s voice trailed off, effectively killing Brock’s lifted mood.

“Nah, man, don’t do that.” Brock rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

It always came to that; talk of when Brock would join Steve, Bucky, Clint, and Tony in the ranks of settling down and - probably - starting a family. But that’s not what Brock wanted to do. He didn’t want to settle down with a woman when he was already in love with someone else. Could he go after the person he loved? Sure. Was it possible? Hell no. Not when the person he loved was already in a relationship.  _Especially_  when that person wasn’t gay. Hell, he hadn’t even come out to his family. How the fuck was he going to pursue a relationship, especially an honest one, when he couldn’t even be honest with the people he was closest to?

“Sorry Brock,” Steve said gently. “I was just teasing.”

Steve wasn’t blind, he knew that Brock ‘batted for the other team’, as others had not-so-nicely- put it, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt his feelings that one of his best friends couldn’t be honest with him. But it wasn’t about him, it was about Brock. Even though it was clear that Brock wasn’t ready to say anything about his sexuality, Steve would be there when he was.

Brock forced a smile before faking a yawn. “Need to recharge?” he asked, pointing to the half-empty cup of Steve’s.

“I’ll join you. Need to stretch my legs a bit.”

* * *

You were mumbling to yourself, chewing on the cuticle of your thumb, pacing back and forth in the large room, and glancing up at the white board full of pictures and information. Dodger was keeping you company, his tail brushing the backs of your legs at times, or the end of his wet nose would nudge your hand as he silently asked for a behind-the-ears scratch. Other times, he’d whine low in his throat. Not because he needed to go outside or because he was hungry or because he wanted to play, but because your processes made him anxious. He also had pretty bad separation anxiety, so more often than not, he would join you at work.

All of a sudden, Dodger jumped in front of you and sat down, tail wagging back and forth, and his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. That was a sign that his anxiety was getting to be too much, that you needed to stop and take a moment to breathe.

Laughing gently, you placed your hands on your hips, and arched a brow playfully. “I can’t just stop,” you murmured. Dodger’s rebuttal was a quiet bark, the kind he had been taught to use while at work, but he wasn’t done just yet. He licked his chops and whined anxiously.

“I’m fine, Dodge,” you cooed, dropping down to your knees.

He didn’t approach you, not yet. It was as if you could hear what he was thinking based on the way his brows moved and his eyes bore into yours. His tail stopped wagging, a sign that he was really concerned about something.

“Hey, don’t be looking at me like that,” you playfully admonished.

Dodger barked again, a little louder than last time, but remaining at the acceptable volume. He kept his tongue in his mouth this time, but when he closed it, one of his lips got caught on his teeth, and you couldn’t keep from smiling wide.

“I can’t take you serious when you look like that.” Your chuckles merged into a laugh you hadn’t known you needed. That was when Dodger approached; tail wagging happily and licking your face, setting his front paws on your thighs.

Smiling, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your cheek against the side of his head. He was panting loudly in your ear, so much so that you didn’t hear anyone enter the room. It wasn’t until you stood that you saw someone at the back of the room.

He laughed when you gave a shriek. “Calm down, it’s only me.” Brock stepped further into the room with his hands held high.

“Holy shit! Warn a girl, Rumlow,” you breathed, hand over your hammering heart.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you, Y/N,” he quickly assured you. “You just looked like you were having a good time with Dodger.”

“It’s hard not to have a good time with him,” you praised, giving Dodger’s tail a playful tug. But the dog didn’t play back as he usually did. Instead, his ears were straight up, and he was sniffing the air cautiously.

You placed your hand on the back of Dodger’s neck. “You know him, Dodge,” you said gently. You hadn’t seen him act this way before, he had always been so happy and rambunctious with everyone he met; Brock included.

Brock smiled at you. “A’course he does. I got some new cologne,” he explained, brows bobbing coquettishly.

“Yeah,” you breathed, scraping your nails through his fur. “I’m sure that’s it.”

“It’s gotta be. Anyway, Steve and I were getting coffee. You in need of any?”

“Hell yes,” you answered exuberantly. “Coffee is always a good thing to have.” You slipped into your shoes and attached Dodger’s collar before following Brock out of the room and into the break room.

* * *

**_THREE DAYS AGO_ **

“Stupid fucking bitch,” he roared as he slammed the door behind him. He couldn’t believe that she had the fucking nerve to try and escape, and then lie to him about it. Why couldn’t she be like all the other cows before her and just lie there, begging to be set free, spouting empty promises of not telling anyone about him? Why does she gotta be so fucking difficult?!

Storming to the fridge, he mumbled under his breath about not being able to wait until he could slit her fucking throat. No, wait. Maybe he would keep her alive so she could watch as he cut her open, expertly sliding the knife under her skin. Of course she would scream in agony as the skin was separated from the layer of fat that made him gag every time he watched it jiggle like fucking jell-o. She would probably buck and thrash, doing everything in her power to get away from him.

“Gonna have to do somethin’ ‘bout that,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled out a bottle of beer. “Because that is too good an opportunity to pass up.”

After draining the bottle and tossing it into the recycling, he marched into the workroom. There, in the corner, was his masterpiece. Every time he saw it, it took his breath away. He was so fucking close to finishing it. The final pieces would come from Y/N in a few day’s time.

He had to be patient, but it was so goddamn difficult to wait. Excitement and fear made it damn near impossible to get anything resembling a good night’s sleep. Excitement at finally finishing the project and coming clean about his feelings. And fear because… well, because he wasn’t fucking stupid, he knew he’d never see another day alive after coming clean. Was he crazy? Certifiably so, but not stupid. There would be no encores, no second showing. This was going to be his final act, his swan song.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON THE PREDATOR’S OBSESSION
> 
> There was too much information, there always was. But every other time before, you had gotten through it. You had to, because it was your job. Not just that, though. You loved it; analyzing everything about every little detail in a way that drove most people crazy. It drove the team crazy, the way your scientifically correct verbal vomit that helped put the bad guy -or guys- behind bars. So you’d get through the onslaught of information. You just had to take it slow. Which you fucking hated.

**_3 MONTHS AGO_ **

Fury wasn’t happy, and everyone knew it.

Somehow, another month flew by, and the team was no closer to finding the ‘son of a bitch’ responsible. You seemed to take it personally. Two years ago, Fury had hired you because of your insane profiling skills - Steve’s words, not yours - and there you were, telling the director that you couldn’t deliver a profile because…

“I don’t want to fuckin’ hear it, Y/L/N,” Fury yelled. “I want this asshole found!”

A sharp pain shot through your jaw as you ground your teeth. “Sir, we are trying,” you stressed. “This guy is good. He’s crazy smart, might even be smarter than me. His knife skills are beyond anything we’ve ever seen, which is saying something. So he’s probably got a military background, could have even earned a dishonorable discharge. He’s tall and strong, and he uses every bit of that strength to overpower and kill his victims. That’s what we know.”

Fury growled as he stared at you. “It’s not good enough.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” you shouted, loud enough that people outside the office turned their heads, looking at the pair of you through the floor to ceiling window walls. “We have no clue what this guy looks like! Besides the victims being female, heavier, and white, we have no idea how he is picking them. There’s no surveillance, no evidence left behind; [i]nothing[i]! We are all doing our best to find this guy and nail him to the fucking wall, but we can only do so much with what we have.”

The director stood tall and blinked his one good eye several times until you were done yelling at him. You could tell he wanted to say something, whether it be words of discipline or some kind of order, you didn’t know. What you didn’t expect him to do was nod and point to the door, effectively dismissing you.

You stormed out, slammed the door behind you, and, ignoring everyone’s blatant stares, marched to your office. Wanda went to ask how the meeting went, but thought better of it. Instead, she grabbed her cell phone and darted in the office behind you.

Muttering to yourself, you kicked off your heels, ripped off the dark blue fitted blazer, and threw it on top of a chair. “Doesn’t think we’re doin’ our job,” you ranted as soon as Wanda closed the door.

Her heavily accented voice was soft when she said, “I’m sure he doesn’t think that, Y/N.”

“Bastard said as much,” you rasped, hands carding through your freshly unknotted hair. “We can only do so much,” you repeated your earlier statement, more to yourself than Wanda.

“You’re doing all you can,” Wanda assured, standing in front of you. “You need a break.”

Pulling out your cell phone, you shook your head. “Can’t, Wanda. They just found another body,” you sighed heavily.

* * *

**_2 ½ MONTHS AGO_ **

The date had gone smoothly. So smoothly, that he almost started to have second thoughts about slipping a mickey in her drink. Almost. Truth was, he relied a little too heavily on the drug. Not that he ever took it himself, but because he couldn’t think about having an intimate relationship with her. He almost shuddered at the thought, but refrained as she was currently staring at him through hooded lids, her tongue was playing with her bottom lip in a way she probably thought was sensual.

He played along, dragging his fingers over the back of her hand until she turned it over. She giggled like a little girl at his touch on the sensitive skin inside her wrist. He could feel it, the way his pupils exploded when he saw it on her palm; the mark she was born with, the mark that let him know she was the one.

She cringed when he touched it, fingers flexed and her wrist twitched on instinct as she tried to pull away. It was just another imperfection on her already grossly oversized body. But to him, her body, as disgusting as it was, was exactly what he needed. Not sexually, no. Things never went that far, they couldn’t. But he didn’t think about that.

He focused on telling her that she was beautiful, no matter what. That it didn’t matter how society viewed her, she was the most alluring woman he had ever met. He spouted stolen words from obscure poetry and lyrics, words that she didn’t know, words that made her blush, words that made her want to get the check and ask, “Your place or mine?”

The answer was always, “Mine.” She smiled coquettishly, ran a hand through her curled hair, and blushed a deeper shade of pink under his dark and intense stare.

With the check paid, he stood, buttoned his jacket, and held out his hand. They left the restaurant together, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist, giggling at the words he was whispering to her. His grip tightened when she stumbled in the parking lot, and again when she moaned and closed her eyes when her vision blurred. She tried to push away and ask what was happening, but her tongue wouldn’t work and her knees started to shake.

He told her to hold on, that she probably had too much to drink, and that they were almost there; just a few more steps. He propped her against the car as he opened the passenger door. After helping her inside and securing her belt, the door was closed and he was rounding the back end.

That’s when someone called out, asking if everything was alright. Having watched the woman stumble, they were concerned about her wellbeing. It was only natural.

“Of course,” he told the elderly couple. “One too many glasses of wine. Don’t you worry, I’m taking her straight home,” he assured them with an award-winning smile. He drove off a moment later, waving politely to the couple that watched their departure.

* * *

**_3 MONTHS AGO_ **

Having spent the last two years in the field, you’d seen your share of bloody and tortured bodies, so it was safe to say that there wasn’t much that turned your stomach. Until you watched them uncover the newly-discovered remains of Katherine Teague, kindergarten teacher at the local elementary school.

It wasn’t the skin hanging loosely from her frame, jiggling back and forth when her body moved, or the smell accompanying the decomposing body. It wasn’t even her nudity that bothered you. It was the fact that Katherine’s breasts had been removed. Not just the skin, but the muscle and tissue beneath. But it wasn’t merely the sight of blood that made your stomach churn. It was more psychological than physical. Breasts, the main thing that helped you feel sexy, sensual, and most like a woman because Steve would stare at them and bite his bottom lip. They were gone. For the first time, you felt like you were going to throw up.

Steve grabbed your hand and looked down at you with concern flashing in his azure eyes. “You ok?”

“I’ll be fine,” you answered, swallowing the extra saliva that kept filling your mouth.

Standing on the other side of you was Wanda, and this was the first semi-fresh body she had seen. She sucked in a breath and grabbed your hand. Bucky draped his arm over her shoulders and pulled her tight into him.

“You don’t have to be here, doll,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

She shook her head and steeled herself. “I want to be. I’ll be just fine, James,” she assured him.

Dressed in dark blue scrubs, Peter tugged on a pair of latex gloves as he approached the gurney. “Quite the crowd,” he noted, one corner of his mouth pulled into a nervous smile.

With furrowed brows, you asked, “Where’s Banner?”

“Called in,” Peter answered quickly. “Said he’s not feeling well.”

“You sure you got this, kid?” Steve asked, teasing the considerably younger member of the group.

Peter scoffed playfully. “Oh, I got this, Rogers,” he answered with a wink and smile.

“Can we get started?” you snapped, effectively killing the slightly lighter mood.

Peter’s smile fell and he cleared his throat. “Ye- yeah, of c- course,” he sputtered, nerves fraying under the intensity that seemed to flow off of everyone in the room.

While Peter was getting things ready, Steve looked down at you again. “You sure you’re alright?”

“I just want to catch this son of a bitch,” you seethed.

“We will, Y/N,” Steve promised.

* * *

**_2 MONTHS AGO_ **

Running his fingers over the glass, he stared at the breasts he had cut off the school teacher. They were floating in a large jug of embalming fluid; had to keep the tissue from rotting until everything was ready for the big reveal. Shit, he got a rush of adrenaline just thinking about it. Who was he kidding? He got a rush every-fucking-day he went without getting caught. Not that there hadn’t been some close calls, but they had been pretty easy to get out of. The thing that helped the most was his connection inside the FBI.

It was almost comical; watching the agents run around like chickens with their heads cut off, especially when ‘evidence’ had been discovered. That was probably his favorite part about the whole thing; leaving just enough to get their hopes up, only to have that hope get ripped away.

“Somebody help me,” the woman screamed, tugging at his attention.

“Nobody can hear you,” he snarled, pushing up from the chair and marching over to stare down at the sobbing woman.

She shuddered and pushed herself against the dirt wall, trying get as far away as possible. “P- please let me g- go,” she begged, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, streaking through the dirt, and dripping off her chin.

He snorted and ran a hand over his face. “You don’t get it, do you, you cow? The only way you’re leaving this place is after I’m through with you,” he yelled, kicking dirt into the hole.

Wails erupted from the woman, and it was all he could do to keep from jumping down and slashing her throat. As much as he would love to feel the hot spray of her blood on his face, he needed to stick to the plan. So he did the one thing he instantly regretted doing because it made him feel weak.

After dropping to his knees, he asked, “Can you please stop?”

It took a handful of moments before she could answer. “Wh- why?” she sputtered, her voice cracking under the weight of fear and panic.

“Because I asked nicely?” he managed to choke out.

With her chin quivering and tears still rolling down her face, the young woman pushed away from the wall and stared hard at her captor. “Were you lying when you said no one could hear me?”

Shaking his head, he moved to sit cross legged, resting his elbows on his knees. It looked more like a meditative pose than the way one would sit in conversation. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

“Are you going to… to ki… to kill me?” she asked softly, the breath catching in her throat.

Honesty had worked for him so far. Why lie now? “That’s the plan.”

Her hands were shaking as she raked them over her face and up into her hair. She swallowed thickly and nodded curtly. “How long do I have?”

“Eleven days,” he answered quickly. The truth felt foreign on his tongue, as if it were this bitter taste that he wanted to spit out, to rid himself of something that made him appear as if he gave a shit.

“Eleven days,” she repeated under her breath, her heart hammering painfully in her chest. She swallowed the bile that was at the back of her throat and nodded, accepting the unknown brutality that would befall her.

He watched her closely as she absorbed his words, pacing around the small space as she talked to herself; more than likely giving herself a pep talk or saying a prayer to whichever deity she believed in. He hadn’t expected her to take it so well. She was beginning to intrigue him. It was definitely too soon to tell, but he had a feeling that she would be his favorite kill.

* * *

Standing in front of what had been deemed the Murder Board, you had your arms over your head, pushing up to your toes, stretching your weary muscles. With the addition of Katherine Teague’s information, it was beginning to look like another board would be necessary. Fuck. You really needed to whip your brain into shape. Not that you were one to toot your own horn, but it had never taken you this long to close a case. With a heavy sigh, you were about to turn around and go home when something caught your eye.

Katherine had a birthmark on the back of her hand. Birthmarks themselves weren’t uncommon, but something about this one was different, familiar. With brows pulled together, you hastily pulled every photograph of each victim down and began to sort through them on your desk. Sure enough, each woman had the exact same birthmark. Granted, each one had a different placement. But was it really that simple?

“What’d you find?” Steve asked as he entered your office.

You shook your head and answered, “I… I don’t know. It could be nothing.”

“If you found it,” he started, rounding the desk to stand beside you. “It’s not nothin’.”

Blowing out a heavy breath, you held up two pictures. “Could it be something so simple as a birthmark?”

“This guy’s a fuckin’ lunatic,” he muttered. “He could be killing because they have the same goddamn eye color.”

“Really, Rogers?” Brock snarled. “That’s the best you got?”

Steve shrugged one shoulder and handed a couple of pictures to his partner. “Birthmarks,” he clarified. “Each vic has one.”

“Everybody has a birthmark,” Brock waved his hand in dismissal and rolled his eyes.

“Not this kind, Rumlow,” you argued. “Only 1 to 2% of infants have hemangiomas.”

Both men stared at you, but it was Brock that asked, “The fuck is that?”

“Hemangiomas,” you said really slowly, more for Brock’s benefit than Steve’s. “It is the most common benign tumor in infants.”

Brock swallowed thickly and, if you weren’t mistaken, sweat started shining on his forehead. “It’s a fuckin’ tumor?”

Standing to place the photos back on the board, you shook your head. “Benign, Rumlow. Means it’s not harmful; the bearer does not have cancer,” you explained gently.

Steve was sitting on the edge of your desk and rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “We need to bring this to Fury.”

“Why?” Brock demanded. “It’s nothin’. Birthmark, like you said. It won’t break the fuckin’ case”

“No, Steve’s right,” you admitted and slid into your shoes. “As minor as it seems, it’s a development. Fury needs to know.”

Standing tall, Steve stared at his friend for a moment. “The hell’s wrong with you, man? You’re sweatin’ up a storm.”

With a shaking hand, Brock swiped a hand over his face and wiped it onto his pants. “Y- yeah, man. I’m totally cool.”

“Maybe you should head home,” you suggested, dropping a hand to the back of his wrist and squeezing gently. The first thing you took note of was his pulse. Christ, it was pumping so hard you were surprised it wasn’t splitting the skin and pouring out. He looked down at you and there was something in his eyes that made your chest tighten. You were just about to grasp what exactly you were seeing, but he blinked and it was gone.

Brock covered your hand with his and smiled softly. “That’s a good idea,” he murmured. “Catch ya tomorrow, Y/N.”

Steve nodded as Brock walked out of the office, waiting for a moment before catching your attention. “What was that about?”

“What was [i]what[i] about?” you asked, tugging your hair out of the low ponytail you had been sporting for the last several hours.

“You were profilin’ him,” he stated simply, a protective edge to his voice.

With a sigh, you pinched the bridge of your nose. “It’s what I do, Steve. I’m a profiler.”

“No.” There was a subtle narrowing of his eyes as he stepped back. “No, this time was different.”

“I… I can’t explain it, alright?” you huffed, irritated for several reasons. The main reason for your irritation was the thought you had entertained that Brock could possibly be capable of murder in cold blood. You blamed it on the flash of… something in his eyes. Why would he react that way? All because of a birthmark. To say the least, it had piqued your interest, so you did something you swore you’d never do; profile a member of the team.

“You’d best try and explain why you’d profile one of us, let alone one of my best friends,” Steve said a little less than friendly.

Shaking your head, you reached over and pulled the flash drive from your computer. “I can’t, Steve. I’m sorry,” you murmured softly. “I should get this to Fury.”

He was chewing on the inside of his cheek and his nostrils flaring in aggravation before he said, “Yeah, you do that.”

* * *

With his hands balled into fists, Steve stormed out of Y/N’s office. Did she really think that Brock, one of Steve’s oldest friends, his chosen brother, could murder, not just one person, but several, in cold blood? It was outrageous! If he wasn’t so damn pissed, he’d probably be laughing at the ludicrous insinuation Y/N made. Technically, she didn’t accuse Rumlow of anything, but the intent was perfectly fucking clear.

She thought Brock Rumlow was a murderer. Never had he heard anything so absurd.

The door to the roof slapped closed after Steve stepped through. The wind greeted him, pushing through his hair and down the collar of the white dress shirt, blowing his jacket back. It was refreshing, the cool air on his skin, calming the irritation that flooded through him.

With hands in his pockets, he walked toward a pacing Brock. “Hey, man,” he greeted.

Brock rolled his eyes and pulled in a long drag. “You gotta get her under control,” he demanded with a low growl.

“There is nothing about Y/N I can control,” Steve chuckled in spite of the anger he still felt.

Exhaling heavily, Brock shook his head while he continued to pace. “She fuckin’ profiled me!” Brock would be lying if he said he wasn’t angry at Y/N, but he was more upset at himself. All it had taken was a moment for his armor to slip, to let someone see the darkness that was simmering just below the surface.

“I know, brother,” Steve sighed and continued to watch Brock as he smoked, pacing back and forth with purpose.

There was something going on with Brock, anyone within spitting distance could see that. But it wasn’t blatant enough for Steve to put his finger on. His friend had changed over the six months; ever since he and Y/N got engaged. He wasn’t the same let-loose-living-at-a-nightclub-drink-a-case-of-beer-by-himself kind of guy anymore. Maybe it was because Brock -along with Steve, Bucky, and Clint- had entered his mid-30’s, saw that he couldn’t live that life anymore. Nobody but Brock knew the answer to that. As much as Steve wanted to know the truth, ask Brock exactly what the hell was going on, he knew Brock wouldn’t tell him.

After stubbing out the cigarette, Brock pinched and rolled it between his fingers, flicking it off the roof a moment later. “Imma head home,” he announced, shoving a hand into his pocket as he searched for his car keys.

“Yeah, ok,” Steve murmured, fighting off a yawn. “Supposed to start storming soon, so drive careful.”

Before Brock walked away, he pulled Steve into a hug, clapping his hands on Steve’s back. “You, too, brother.”

* * *

An exhausted Fury looked at the pictures on his monitor and listened while you rambled on about the birthmarks, your tired and frazzled nerves getting the best of you, making you stumble over normally easy words and terminology.

“He- hema- hemangiomas occur in only 1 to 2% of infantile popu- population, while 4 to 10% show in cau- caucasian adult women, most of th- those women being fair-skinned,” you stammered, hands twisting together behind your back.

Nick looked at you curiously. “You alright there, Y/N?”

You unconsciously scratched at the back of your neck. “I… I’m fine,” you lied. Truth was, you had a hemangioma on the back of your neck, barely hidden in your hair.

“So, if I’m understanding correctly, you think the killer is going after white women that have a fucking birthmark,” he observed, leaning back in his chair to look directly at you.

“It sounds… odd, I know,” you tried acting like you had your shit together, but deep down, you were starting to freak out.

Nick laced his fingers together over his stomach. “No,” he disagreed calmly. “Different, but not odd. Did you find anything else?”

With your bottom lip trapped between your teeth, you shook your head. You wanted to go home, take a hot shower, and relax, but relaxing didn’t seem like an option. Not when all you could think about was the heart-shaped birthmark on your neck. The same birthmark Steve had on his chest. The same birthmark each victim bore.

“Alright, kid,” he joked, adding a wink, which looked funny as hell as he only had one eye because he knew you hated it. “Go on home. You did good with this.”

Rather than do as instructed, you took a shower in the locker room and changed into a pair of baggy sweats and t-shirt. After grabbing a fresh cup of coffee, you sat at your desk and started your own investigation by opening up Brock Rumlow’s digital file.

* * *

Soaking wet and pissed off, he stormed into the house. Ignoring the need for a cold drink, something that would wash away the bitter taste on his tongue, he stomped through the house, unlocked the basement door, and pounded down the stairs.

She was looking up at him, wide eyes full of confusion because she had gotten to know his behavior and routine. And, as weird as it was, she was accepting of the situation, of him, of her fate. She had led a full and complete life, she was ready to move on to the next, to whichever god she prayed to, to the next life; bunch’a bullshit if you asked him.

Melanie was lifting her hands when he shot her in the face. Whether it was in defense or in some vain attempt to convince him to stop, he didn’t know. Whatever. It didn’t fuckin’ matter anyway. She wasn’t his endgame. That fat-ass-profiling-bitch was. And the timeline was moving up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON THE PREDATOR’S OBSESSION:
> 
> “You were profilin’ him,” he stated simply, a protective edge to his voice.
> 
> With a sigh, you pinched the bridge of your nose. “It’s what I do, Steve. I’m a profiler.”
> 
> “No.” There was a subtle narrowing of his eyes as he stepped back. “No, this time was different.”
> 
> “I… I can’t explain it, alright?” you huffed, irritated for several reasons. The main reason for your irritation was the thought you had entertained that Brock could possibly be capable of murder in cold blood. You blamed it on the flash of… something in his eyes. Why would he react that way? All because of a birthmark. To say the least, it had piqued your interest, so you did something you swore you’d never do; profile a member of the team.

**_4 DAYS AGO_ **

There wasn’t much to do to pass the time while being held hostage. The first thing you had tried to do was fight back, but he was much stronger than you, and the chloroform filled your lungs too quickly. Then you tried pleading with him, begging him to release you, that you wouldn’t tell anyone about it. Next came the shock of finding out who your captor was. You threw up until it hurt deep inside your bones. What followed was betrayal and rage. How could he do this? Not just to you, but to everyone he knew.

After that, you were filled with determination to make it out alive. But no matter what you tried, nothing worked. It was as if the cosmos were conspiring against you. Every time you climbed the dirt walls, you fell flat on your ass. Then there was the time you stripped out of your clothes and secured them together. At the end, you tied a knot around a full water bottle and tossed it up, trying - and failing - to not get your hopes up. You slowly worked in a circle, throwing the bottle, and pulling on it, seeing if it got caught on something, anything that would help you survive or escape. The only thing you got was a black eye when he came home early. You yanked the bottle back so hard, you missed catching it, and it struck you in the face.

He didn’t notice for two days. And when he finally did notice, he didn’t seem to be bothered by it. Not like before, when you had fallen. He just stood there, nodding as you lied, telling him that, “Bruising occurred easier while malnourished.” Which wasn’t a complete lie.

All he did was blink and grind his teeth. You might have been a damn good profiler and could get a read on anyone you met, but when it came to the man standing on the edge above, you had no fucking clue what had gone wrong with him.

* * *

Bucky was sitting next to Wanda, rubbing circles onto the back of her hand with his thumb. “We’ve got every available person on this, doll. Y/N will be back soon,” he promised, sealing it with a kiss to his girlfriend’s temple.

“How can you be so sure?” she asked, accented-voice thick with worry. Her best friend had been missing for ten days. “There’s only a couple days left. If she’s not found… I… I ca- can’t lose her, James.”

Wrapping her in his arms, Bucky kissed her head and stroked her hair. “Don’t think like that,” he murmured into her hair.

“I can’t help it,” Wanda sobbed, her blunt nails scratching at his back, catching on the seams of his dark blue blazer.

He hated seeing Wanda cry, especially when there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it. The helplessness that filled him left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was used to doing something; shooting the bad guy, and saving the day. Anything other than sitting on the couch, consoling Wanda while she prematurely mourned Y/N, weeping openly.

Pushing her back, Bucky cupped her damp face and kissed her forehead. “I promise you that we will find Y/N and bring her back.”

Wanda hiccupped and sniffled loudly. “You best not go back on your word, James, or so help me-” she never got a chance to finish the threat because Bucky’s mouth was on hers.

He kissed her until she gave in and her eyes fluttered closed. “I’ve never gone back on my word, doll. I don’t intend to start now,” he whispered against her lips.

“Am I interrupting somethin’?” Clint teased as he turned on his hearing aids. The sight of Wanda’s tear-streaked face instantly changed Clint’s playful demeanor.

“She’s worried about Y/N,” Bucky divulged, absentmindedly stroking the nape of Wanda’s neck with his middle and ring finger.

Wanda sniffled loudly, accepting the tissue Clint handed her with a tight-lipped smile. “Y/N has two days, at the most. Of course I am worried about her,” she admitted, her voice shattered and weak.

Clint sat across from the couple, and kicked his feet onto the table, crossing them at the ankles. “We’ll get her, kid.”

“And what about  _him_?” A different emotion made Wanda’s voice shake. It wasn’t sadness anymore. It was unbridled rage.

Blowing out a ragged breath, Clint ground his teeth together and leveled Wanda with a dark glare. “Bastard’s goin’ down,” he snarled.

* * *

**_1 ½ MONTHS AGO_ **

“Melanie Sanders,” Peter announced as he pulled back the thick white sheet. “35 years old, caucasian, female. And as you can see, cause of death was from three bullets, close in proximity, which means-”

“Perp has good fucking aim,” Steve interrupted.

“He probably enlisted,” Y/N added, meeting only Peter’s gaze as everyone looked her way. “Got high scores for marksmanship.”

Steve shook his head, biting back the smart ass comment about how he and Rumlow had done just that. Hell, the only person that scored higher than them, was Clint Barton; earned himself the nickname Hawkeye. But why start talking to Y/N about something like that? He was still bitter about last night, how she had profiled his best friend. Early on, she had promised to never profile anyone on the team. It bothered him how easily she had broken that promise.

Y/N continued with her profiling. “After being honorably discharged, he would have joined the police force. Worked his way up the ranks quickly, earning himself many medals and commendations from the Police Commissioner.”

“You got that from this?” Peter asked, motioning to Melanie’s face.

She shrugged one shoulder. “There’s no gunpowder or stippling around the wounds. Which means he was probably standing a good distance back, about ten, maybe fifteen feet. The further away you are from the target, the more difficult the shot can be.”

“This is going to help us find him how?” Steve asked, shoulders tight, back straight.

For the first time all day, Y/N looked at him, and it was far from friendly. “Narrows down the search, does it not?”

“We can’t go on a hunch,” Steve whispered condescendingly, shaking his head.

Gnawing on her bottom lip, Y/N ripped off the plastic gloves and slapped them on the table. She leveled Steve with a dark glare before spinning on her heel and storming out of the room. There was a moment of thick silence before Peter moved, bumping into a tray that held a variety of tools used for an autopsy; one of which, clattered noisily to the floor.

Clint slapped his friend in the shoulder. “The fuck is wrong with you?” he whisper-yelled.

Rolling his eyes, Steve scraped a hand over his face. “Askin’ myself the same thing.”

“If I can say someth-” Peter started to say, but Steve cut him off.

“Don’t, kid,” he growled. “Just… don’t. You either, Clint.”

As Peter walked slowly out of the room, Clint was shaking his head. “ No, man. You need someone to ask the tough questions. That’s me, pal.”

Steve ground his teeth before admitting why he was mad at Y/N. “It’s something she always swore she’d never do.”

“ _That’s_  why you’re mad at her?” Clint ran a hand through his spiky hair as he chuckled. “Dude, it’s fucking second nature for her. Hell, I’m surprised she hasn’t exploded from  _not_  proflin’ each and every one of us from the start.”

“That’s not the point,” Steve breathed.

“How is it not?” Clint crossed his arms and stared hard at his friend. “Y/N is an amazing woman, and she kicks ass at her job. You cannot be mad at her for that.”

Steve shook his head stubbornly. “Why the hell not?”

“Because, Steve. It makes you a fucking idiot.” Steve was about to argue, but Clint held up a hand. “Go and apologize.”

* * *

Storming into your office, you threw the door closed, rattling the glass and surrounding frame. “The fuck is wrong with him?” you seethed, kicking off your shoes, ripping off the white jacket, and throwing it across the room.

You and Steve had been together for a handful of years, but this was the first time you wanted to punch him in his perfect fucking face. Your anger toward him wasn’t mixing well with the cocktail of emotions already flooding your system.

The ring on your finger as it flickered in the light caught your attention. You dropped into the chair and stared at it, the edges of your vision blurring.

Everyone had warned you about getting involved with someone you worked closely with, but when it came to Steve Rogers, all bets were off. He was tall, handsome, funny, kind-hearted, dorky, and intelligent. You would have to be a moron to let someone like him slip through your fingers.

Profiling Rumlow had been the first real fight the two of you had had. That wasn’t to say the relationship had been easy sailing, far from it, but he had never looked so betrayed and hurt as he did last night.

A knock pulled you from your own mind. “Can I come in?”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you flicked your finger over the ergonomical mouse, effectively bringing your computer out of rest mode, and nodded. “Who am I to stop you?”

Steve closed the door behind him before approaching your desk. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, hands shoved into his pockets.

You rolled your eyes, hoping he couldn’t see the tears that pricked the corners. “Clint told you to say that.”

“How’d you know?” he asked dumbfoundedly.

With a scoff, you lifted your gaze to your fiance. “It’s my job, Rogers,” was your simple, curt answer. “Plus, he’s always been more level-headed than you.”

Steve pulled in a deep breath, and blew it out his nose. “Whether or not Clint told me to apologize, I really am sorry.”

“Whatever, Steve,” you blew him off, turning your attention back to the report you had been working on. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some actual profiling to do.”

“You really think it’s Brock?”

Sighing heavily, you leveled Steve with a dark glare. “That’s how I know you’re not actually sorry,” you explained. “You won’t even entertain the idea that it could be someone within the team, let alone, your best friend since high school.”

He was shaking his head, mouth opening to dig himself deeper. You spoke before he could. “To answer your question, yes, I do think it’s Brock, and I’ll tell you why. You didn’t see the way his pupils reacted when I touched him last night. There was a darkness there, Steve. Something dangerous and cold-”

“Hold on,” Steve insisted. “His eyes? That’s what you’re going with?”

Gnawing on the inside of your cheek, you nodded. “Out of all the people that I thought wouldn’t believe me, you were at the bottom of that list.”

“He’s my best friend,” Steve shouted, face turning red.

You stood from the chair, sending it into the wall behind you. “And I am the best fucking profiler in this division!”

He shook his head, nostrils flaring as he ground his jaw. “You’re wrong about this,” he breathed.

“Get out,” you ordered, voice shattering into a million pieces.

“Gladly,” Steve gruffed. He stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. With a sob, you fell to your knees, and buried your face in your hands.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON THE PREDATOR’S OBSESSION:
> 
> Steve shook his head, nostrils flaring as he ground his jaw. “You’re wrong about this,” he breathed.
> 
> “Get out,” you ordered, voice shattering into a million pieces.
> 
> “Gladly,” Steve gruffed. He stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. With a sob, you fell to your knees, and buried your face in your hands.

_**12 DAYS AGO** _

Since the fight over a month ago with Steve, you had been staying with Wanda; she wouldn’t have had it any other way. You ignored every phone call and text, deleted the emails as soon as they appeared, looked at Clint or Fury whenever you had an update. Ignoring Steve was exhausting, and it was taking your attention away from the case.

After the explosive fight, you kept to yourself, stopped trying to convince the team that you believed Brock was the perpetrator. You started to second guess yourself. Did you imagine the dark gleam in his eyes, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t looking? Could a member of your own team be capable of doing something so evil, so venomous, so monstrous?

In the interim, another body had been discovered. Ashley had been beaten savagely; both orbital bones were shattered, jaw dislocated, all ten fingers - along with her toes - had been utterly destroyed. If it hadn’t been for the birthmark, you would have thought it was just a random murder.

With a weary sigh, you decided that you’d had enough for the day. You turned off the computer and lights, and took the elevator to the parking garage. You were too busy texting Wanda to notice that you were being followed.

“Y/N,” Brock called out, his long legs making it easy to catch up to you. “Wait up.”

“Can’t talk,” you insisted, digging for the car keys. The last thing you wanted was to be alone with the man you thought was the murderer.

He chuckled dangerously low, and draped an arm over your shoulders. “Don’t tell me you’re too busy to talk about Steve.”

You tried to shrug out of Brock’s grip, a cold shudder slithering along your spine, but his grip was too damn tight. “There’s nothing to discuss with you.”

“What if I told you that Steve wanted to apologize?” Brock started steering you away from your car and toward his.

“He’s already apologized,” you hissed, his fingers digging painfully into your arm. “Let me go.”

“Sorry, doll,” he said, overly-sweet and condescending. “Can’t do that.”

You went to scream, to push the alarm on your key fob, but he slapped a rag over your face. The chloroform made your eyes water, made bile rise in the back of your throat. You bucked against him, dropping the things in your hands so you could claw at his arm and hand, but it was too late; your vision was going blurry, black eating at the edges, and your muscles started to go lax.

The last thing you heard was his wicked laugh before you slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

_**YESTERDAY** _

He sat on the edge, legs dangling over, swinging from side to side. Dark eyes bored into you like lasers, pushing through the skin and muscles, shattering the bones underneath. Squaring your shoulders, you lifted your gaze, and barely managed to suppress a shudder.

“What do you want?” you snapped wearily.

A dark smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “Profile me,” he requested.

“What, why?” you scoffed, shifting uneasily on the cold ground.

“I know you want to.” He shrugged, tilting his head to the side. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” your captor chuckled.

“What fun could it possibly be?”

“Do it,” he said threateningly.

“You were bullied in elementary and middle school because of something small, maybe a speech impediment, or the more effeminate mannerisms you learned the hard way to hide,” you began, eyeing him warily as you folded your legs underneath you. When he didn’t say anything, you went on. “That changed freshman year of high school, having worked out during the summer to compensate. You joined the football team, met Steve, and became fast friends. Something happened then, some switch was flipped inside you. You’d known you were different from early on, but meeting Steve solidified it.”

That was when he snarled. “I’m not different!”

Managing not to recoil, you took a deep breath. “You realized you were gay, and in love with your best friend. But you never said a word about it. How would that look, a football player in love with the quarterback?”

“Shut up,” he ordered through his teeth, hands shaking at his sides.

“The two of you enlisted, earned high sportsman marks, and even got deployed to the same battle zone. You were discharged a handful of years later, again, at the same time as Steve, and immediately applied to be part of the FBI, both climbing the ranks quickly. And then I came along, took Steve’s time and energy away from you, the man that is in love with him.”

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he spat as he shoved off the ground.

You shook your head. “Steve’s not in love with you, Brock. He never was, and he never will be.”

“Shut up,” he screamed, throwing something into your prison. You moved too late, and after it collided with your head, everything went black.

* * *

_**11 DAYS AGO** _

The door to Brock’s apartment flew open, thanks to Bucky, and the battering ram. Steve was the first inside, gun drawn, wide eyes scanning the front room as he called out, “FBI! We have a warrant for your arrest.” Clint was behind Steve, scanning the blind spots that eluded Steve, making sure no one was hiding, and nothing was overlooked as the trio cleared the small apartment.

“He’s not here, Steve,” Bucky stated the obvious, holstering his weapon after clicking on the safety.

Steve ground his teeth painfully. “Goddamnit,” he snarled, kicking over a chair.

“Can you think of anywhere else he would be?” Clint asked gently.

“No,” was Steve’s curt answer.

“Let’s look around, see what we can find,” Bucky offered, knowing that Steve would throw himself into doing whatever he could to get Y/N back.

* * *

_**PRESENT** _

“Yahtzee,” Tony shouted. “Brock’s great-great grandparents built a house that wasn’t entered in any census.”

“How’d you find it, then?” Steve wondered, dark circles under his eyes, a pinched expression on his face.

Tony rolled his eyes. “I constructed an algorithm, used it to trace Brock’s genealogy, and all properties within the three county radius, and boom,” the self-proclaimed genius said excitedly. “Got a hit.” Hitting a couple of buttons on the keyboard, a map appeared on the wall, a red X on a piece of property.

“I know that place,” Steve breathed, approaching the wall. “I’ve been there.”

“But you didn’t say anything before,” Clint remarked.

Steve turned to face the small group. “I was there one time when I was 15 or 16,” he explained. “I completely forgot about it.”

Bucky clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Is there anything we need to know about this place?”

Steve wanted to say no, but there was something bothering him in the back of his mind. He dug through the grey matter, and figuratively blew off the cobwebs, groaning as the memory hit him like a ton of bricks. “The old man was paranoid, borderline certifiable; he put in a goddamn soundproof bunker.”

“Gear up,” Fury said, surprising everyone as he had gone unnoticed until then. “Roll out in ten.”

* * *

Brock slapped Y/N across the face, smirking when she groaned painfully. He had her strapped to an operating table, dirty and tattered clothes clinging to her wrinkled and sagging skin. Scalpel in hand, he bent over, and scraped the flat side of it along the column of her neck.

“Time to wake up,” he sang in a mocking tone. “Can’t have you sleep through the final act.”

Her eyes rolled back as she struggled to open the heavy lids. “Fi- final act?” she slurred, tongue thick and awkward in her mouth.

“That’s right, agent,” Brock snarled, grabbing a handful of her hair. “Trying something new, but I can’t do it if you’re sleeping.”

She screamed when her hair was pulled, exposing her awkwardly angled neck. Grinding her teeth, Y/N tried to get out of the restraints, but they were too tight, digging painfully into her skin, drawing blood.

“It’s no use,” he chided, scraping the scalpel under her chin, twisting it just enough to draw a bead of blood to the surface. “But don’t let that stop you. By all means, you can kick and scream. Might make things more interesting.”

With nostrils flaring, she glared at him. “They’re going to kill you,” she threatened darkly.

“And yet, that won’t stop me from killing you,” he laughed, pulling her neck even farther. Any harder and her neck might break. Brock had just tightened his grip on the scalpel when there was an explosion - no doubt a flash bomb - directly above them. Steve called out for Y/N as he ran into the house.

Y/N went to scream, but found she couldn’t, not when her neck was cranked to the side. “Let’s see if he remembers how to get down here,” Brock scoffed, doubting Steve would remember after all of these years.

He was about to be surprised. The door was kicked in less than a minute later, and Steve - followed by Clint and Bucky - stormed down the steps, guns drawn, and hatred etched deep into their features.

Brock pushed the blade into Y/N’s neck, just shy of splitting the skin, and chuckled when she whined. “It’s about time you joined us, brother.”

Steve glared at the man he had once called his family. “Let her go,” he ordered calmly, sights set on Brock’s forehead.

He pretended to think things through for a moment before shaking his head. “Sorry, can’t do that.”

“Why not?” asked Bucky, slowly sidestepping, working in a circle around the room.

“I’ll slit her fuckin’ throat before anyone reaches us,” Brock spat, entire body thrumming with pent-up energy.

Steve shook his head at Bucky, nothing much, just a barely-visible twitch. “Let’s not do anything we might regret.”

Brock laughed wickedly. “The only thing I regret is not slitting this bitch’s throat the minute you laid eyes on her!”

“Take the shot,” Bucky said to his friend.

As badly as Steve wanted to take Brock out, there was a part of him that kept him from pulling the trigger, the part of him that was Brock’s friend, that had known him for half their lives. That part made his finger relax on the trigger.

“Come on, Cap,” Clint urged, using the only-on-a-case nickname for his friend.

“Nobody has to die today,” Steve tried convincing Brock, taking it a step further by un-cocking the pistol before holstering it.

“The fuck you doin’?” Bucky snapped, eyes darting between Brock and Steve.

Steve looked at Y/N, wincing at the pain etched in her features. “Tell me what you need, Brock,” breathed the agent, hands held up, risking a step closer.

“It’s too late for that,” Brock snarled.

Another step closer. “It’s never too late for us to talk. We used to do that all the time, remember?” If Steve could get Brock talking, then maybe Brock would lose focus on Y/N. Maybe then, he would let Y/N go.

Brock sighed softly. “That was before.”

“Before what, Brock?” Another sliding step, and Steve was within spitting distance.

Brock’s face twisted angrily. “Before this _BITCH_ ruined everything!” With a flick of his wrist, the scalpel sliced Y/N’s neck open. It wasn’t a long or deep cut, but it sure was painful. With her eyes clamped shut, Y/N grunted in pain.

“Easy, brother,” Steve gasped. “Take it easy.” From the corner of his eye, Steve saw Clint and Bucky work their way around the room. Since Brock’s attention was focused solely on Steve, it seemed their movements had gone unnoticed.

“I won’t… I can’t,” Brock sputtered. “I have to finish this. You have to see…” his voice trailed off as emotion clogged his throat.

Reaching the table, Steve risked a glance down at the woman he loved, and his chest ached at the sight of her. Her eyes were sunken, surrounded by dark circles. Normally soft and glowing skin was hanging loose and grey. He wanted nothing more than to rip her off the table and take her home.

He looked up at his friend a moment later. “What do you need me to see?”

Brock’s eyes filled with tears when he finally confessed his feelings. “I love you, Steve.”

“I love you, too.” And he had. Steve loved Brock like a brother. But as Brock had said moments ago, ‘that was before.’

“No,” Brock argued, voice harder than it had been since they got there. “I _love_ you. Always have.”

“It’s alright,” Steve tried assuring the man he previously said he would die for. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Steve placed a hand over Brock’s scalpel-wielding one. “Let’s go talk upstairs, away from everyone else. What do you say?”

As he thought about the proposition, Brock looked deep into Steve’s eyes and sighed. He wanted nothing more than to take Steve’s hand and go far away, to spend the rest of their lives together, away from prying eyes and whispered accusations. But then there was movement to his left, and Brock realized that Steve had been lying the entire time.

Brock yanked his hands away from Y/N’s hair and Steve’s grip, looking at the man he loved with so much raw passion, it was like a punch to the gut. “I love you,” he repeated before using the scalpel on himself by slitting his own throat.

* * *

Sitting in the back of an ambulance, the medic carefully stitched the cut on your neck before tending to the wounds on your ankles and wrists; abrasions from the cuffs. Because you were severely dehydrated, she started an IV, one of many that would follow. Wearing a tight smile, she grabbed the clipboard and made a few notes.

“Shouldn’t take too long to get to the hospital,” she assured you and Steve. “If you need anything, let us know.” The medic crawled out of the rig and closed the doors, only to climb into the passenger seat a moment later.

Steve barely waited for the medic to leave before he wrapped his arms around you. “I’m so sorry,” he choked, lips brushing through your hair.

You clung to him, aching fingertips digging into his back, weeping against his chest. As strong as you tried to be while Brock held you hostage, you would be lying if you said you hadn’t been afraid for your life. You thought you were going to die.

“It’s alright,” you croaked.

“No,” Steve argued, pulling back to cup your face in his hands. “I should have believed you.”

You scoffed and tried to pull away from him, but he didn’t let you. “You’re right about that.”

“It will never happen again,” he vowed, azure eyes drilling into yours, thumbs sweeping over your dirt-stained cheeks.

“Better not,” you teased, resting your hands on his arms.

“I swear.” Steve bent down and kissed you sweetly, brushing his nose against yours.


End file.
